"Come and get it!" Rust's deep voice bellowed from across the arena floor. "Come and get your fill of priceless knick-knacks! Right here! Only a sheep, a bargain price!"

Queen Scarlet's arena was usually the site of violence and bloodshed, but today, it was the site of commerce and beautiful things. Gone were the visages of horror and the blood and the gore, replaced with only simple sand and colorful tents. A dozen dragons, dressed in the latest styles of jewelry and silk scarves, stood in these tents, shouting about the virtues of all sorts of different wares.

Today was the Queen's hatching-day.

And in the middle of the hustle and bustle, at a booth wrapped in blue-and-red canvas, stood a MudWing who hated mud.

That's right, a MudWing who hated; with everything in him, absolutely loathed mud. If it was dirty, Rust wouldn't go anywhere near it; not for all the sheep and cows in Pyrrhia. Just the very mention was enough to make his scales crawl.

He was quite large despite his young age; only seven years. His brown-and-grey scales recalled the colors of rusting metal and hard, dry stone. But along his belly and his wings were various golden scales that shone like polished bronze. His massive frame and immense muscles were as finely-chiseled as a marble statue, and from within his huge, boxy head peered out a pair of startling green eyes.

If anyone ever saw him, they knew he did not look like a normal MudWing, for across his body was a series of plates and pouches and straps and special devices. The armor was cobbled together from various metal plates, fanning into large clusters of plates around his shoulders and his chest. From there, it stretched up-and-down his back and neck and then up his wings and down to his talons, like branches on a giant iron tree. His helmet, held in place around his head with leather straps, covered up the top of his head and most of his snout, leaving a small gap around his eye so he could easily see. At the tip of his massive, masculine tail was a huge steel hook, used for lifting heavy cargo. There was one large pouch on his back, surrounded by six smaller pouches on his flanks. The pouches were stuffed to bursting with pots and pans and cauldrons and other trinkets; some he had traded for, others he had invented himself. Across one shoulder was a large nine-stringed instrument, carved out of the finest mahogany wood, and mounted on a swivel joint. Whenever Rust had a spare moment, he would casually slip the bow out from inside a neck-mounted pouch, and play a few notes at a time. Finally, tattooed on the inside of his wings was a sigil of a dragon inside a circle. The little dragon's tail was curled up, almost like an infinity symbol, to remind Rust of his history and his current career as an apprentice of the Barterguild.

One other thing about Rust that set him apart was his vast intelligence, something very uncommon for MudWings. Being raised in the Barterguild's various trade classes and exposed to as many scrolls as possible certainly aided his already sharp wits. His muscles came in handy quite often, with heavy objects he had to lift found quite often in his career, and his vast brain gave him the ability to know what made a good deal.

Today was Rust's last day as an apprentice trader, and was now almost ready to join up as a full-time trader in Pyrrhia's Barterguild. Having been trained all his life to fight for the best deals and provide dragons with the best service and supplies possible, Rust was within a stone's throw of his lifelong dream.

And many of the passing nobles and guards, the ones presiding over this event, were within a stone's throw of his wares. He took a second to imagine it—a lowly trader getting to provide knick-knacks and trinkets to SkyWing nobles.

It almost made his loud voice waver as he called out to passersby.

"Hey, you over there with the blue-and-brown eyes!" he hollered, pointing to a burly, rough-looking guard just across the arena. "You look like the kind of dragon who'd be interested in what I've got for you!"

The guard seemed reluctant to come over, casting a disgruntled, if slightly incompetent, look over both shoulders. At last, he shrugged and began to saunter over to Rust's small booth, his heavy, dense armor clunking noisily with every step he took.

Oh, boy, Rust thought as he saw the guard walking over.

"What can I get for you, sir?" he asked, gesturing downwards to a table before him. The canvas around his booth whipped back-and-forth in the wind, making a beat about as rapid as Rust's nervous heart rate.

"You have any of those new meat hooks?" the SkyWing asked, his eyes scanning a dull swath across the otherwise fancy things on Rust's table.

"Meat hooks?" Rust asked, confused. "What do you need meat hooks for?"

"So I can look cooler than my commander," the SkyWing replied. "That's him over there. She's always bragging about that new iron spear she got for her hatching-day."

The SkyWing pointed to another guard, off to the right of where they were standing. The guard in question, a powerfully-built female SkyWing, was holding a long, solid-iron spear, with a large, serrated head. Inside the head was an open space shaped like a rounded-off triangle, giving the weapon a very distinct, modern look.

"Oh, yeah," Rust replied, turning back to the SkyWing before him. "But that still doesn't answer my question. How are meat hooks going to make you look cooler than her?"

"So I can tear a dragon in half without having to get my claws dirty," he said casually. "Blood stains don't wash out very well, you know."

Although Rust didn't show it, he was a bit disturbed by the dragon's bloodlust. How could anyone buy a pair of meat hooks just to kill other dragons? It was a waste of a pair of crucial inventions.

But it wasn't his place to question other dragons' beliefs. His master had taught him that.

At the same time, however, he didn't want to be responsible for selling hooks and weapons like that.

"Let me look around for a minute," he told the SkyWing. "What's your name, by the way?"

"I'm Hawk," the big SkyWing said in a half-grumpy, half-slow-witted voice.

"Well, Hawk," Rust replied as he rifled through his various treasures, "let me see what I've got for you."

He most definitely had meat hooks, but he didn't want to give them to a murderous guard like that. But at the same time, this SkyWing, this Hawk, was Rust's first customer as a senior apprentice.

What am I going to do? I can't afford to lose my first customer! he thought to himself. Meat hooks are for hanging food, not killing other dragons! But what if he leaves if I don't sell him something?

He stared down at the meat hooks. There they were, on top of a pile of scrap, junk and coils of rope.

If there was only a way to make those meat hooks into something a little bit less... violent.

Wait a second...

He had an idea in his big MudWing brain. A smart, shrewd, clever idea as well built as he was.

"Just give me a minute, OK, Hawk?" he called over his armored shoulder.

"Whatever," the SkyWing said, apparently too dull to care.

From within the sack on his back, Rust quickly grabbed another invention of his. The object, a comparatively small and unassuming bundle of iron and wood. But inside this little thing was some advanced work. It was a little passion project Rust had been putting together in his spare time, and he was always looking for an opportunity to mess around with it.

His talons flew to the meat hooks as he grabbed spare wires from another pile of junk, breathing little gusts of fire to weld the little pieces of metal together. Being a MudWing, his fire wasn't the hottest of all, but it was just enough to melt the little copper wires onto the iron.

For the next few minutes, Rust quickly welded more metal scraps, clipped the edges, bent the wires, and did all sorts of crazy things to this pile of junk, fashioning it into a prize item.

That was one of Rust's many strengths. He had had this ability, ever since he was a little dragonet, to see all the possibilities held within worthless junk; to see what could be done with it, the value of it.

And that skill survived in him to this very day.

For only a few seconds, Rust admired his handiwork, before turning back to the patiently (or just apathetically) waiting Hawk.

"Hey, how about this? Can I interest you in this little item right here?" he asked, holding the object up for the big, burly SkyWing to see.

The item in Rust's talons was a wondrous little object, a tiny statue made of junk, forged in the style of a new, emerging art form, from some of the smaller MudWing cities to the west. The statue was of a dragon—a MudWing, specifically—his gossamer, wiry wings wrapped around his body as if to shield him from the cold. In his right talon, the statue held a strong and sturdy spear.

Right then and there, Rust went on with his favorite part of trading—the pitch.

He loved getting a chance to put his own special spin on things, especially with things he found appealing. In truth, he had just picked up that load of junk from a SandWing smithy just a couple of days ago.

"I acquired this beautiful piece of art from an art sale at the palace of Lord Elephant of the SandWings," he began. "It was very generous of him to sell it to me—he's very busy running things in Burn's army, you know. From what I can tell, it's at least twenty, maybe thirty years old; long before the war came and started trashing everything cultural. It's made of wrought iron and copper, as you can no doubt tell from your... intelligence."

He shoved the statue forward a little bit, as if to let the SkyWing get a closer look at it.

"And," he said, chuckling a little, "this is where it gets even better. You see this little spear in the dragon's hand? It's a replica of a spear used by SkyWings at the Battle of Cloudy Ridge—one of the most famous battles in your kingdom's history. Perhaps Queen Moorhen herself commissioned it as a peace offering between the two tribes! Well, Hawk, what kind of deal do you want to cut?"

The SkyWing blinked dully.

"Huh," he said. "Are you sure you don't have any meat hooks or weapons?"

"I'd love to sell you a pair of meat hooks, I really would," Rust replied. "But you've caught me at a bad time. I'm all out of weapons, and I don't know when meat hooks will be back in stock."

The SkyWing shrugged.

"Fine," he said. "I like art and things anyway. I'll give you a few chickens. Pre-plucked."

The SkyWing reached into a bulging pouch over his shoulder and produced a small canvas bag.

"Deal," Rust replied. He could barely contain the smile on his face as the meat clattered on his junk table. Still grinning like a maniac, he handed the statue to Hawk. The big SkyWing looked down at it in satisfaction.

"Enjoy your new things," Rust called out as the big, dumb SkyWing walked away, admiring his reflection in the shiny statue.

Rust couldn't help but chuckle to himself as he grabbed up the new meat and dropped it into one of the sacks on the floor.

Hawk was so dull, he would never know the difference between a piece of fine art and a pile of junk.

And, Rust reminded himself, he'd paid over its value. Or at least, he thought he did. The system used by the Barterguild was kinda confusing.

Mesa would be proud, he thought, recalling his master's way of doing things.

I did the right thing, didn't I? I looked out for myself and my own benefit, and that SkyWing is now happy. He'll never know the difference.

It'll be fine.

Won't it?

Rust had done things like this to his customers before; time and time again he would cheat them and get more food and sometimes a nice thing to re-sell.

And every time he did, he always felt a twinge of guilt in his giant MudWing heart. It felt like something was gnawing at his insides, and he hated the feeling.

But at the same time, Rust let his mind go back to what he'd been raised to believe.

"Hey, Rust," a voice called out from up at the front of the booth.

Rust's big, armored head turned around as he spotted his friend Tumbleweed.

The SandWing was an apprentice that grew up alongside Rust at the Barterguild's headquarters. He was smallish and relatively well-built, like he had the potential to be very muscular if he chose to work out. Of course, this was something he usually opted out of in favor of medical scrolls from the great Barterguild library. His firm and steady talons were most well suited for that kind of work, anyway. He'd never been interested in fighting, as far as Rust could remember; he always slept through their classes on military strategy. But beneath the sand-yellow scales, Rust knew that his SandWing friend was one of the nicest dragons out there.

Of course, 'Weed never really paid attention to Mesa's advice about trading, anyway. He was unusually nice, and was focused more on trying to find an apprenticeship with a physician than messing around in Pyrrhia's marketplaces.

"What's up?" Rust asked, for his friend looked out of breath. "Was there a fight? Did someone smoke you, 'Weed?"

'Weed rolled his eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd heard that joke, Rust knew.

"Mesa just got wind," he replied to the big MudWing. "Queen Scarlet has summoned you to sell her some of your stuff!"

Rust froze.

The Queen of the SkyWings has asked me to give her stuff? he thought.

"Are you sure, bro?" Rust asked, wanting to make sure that he had heard 'Weed correctly.

"As sure as I am that you have a crush on Tangerine," the SandWing replied, smirking.

"Ssshhh!" Rust yelped, holding one of his steel-knuckled talons up in front of his mouth. "I told you not to mention that in public!"

"You'd better get going!" 'Weed replied, ignoring his friend's plea for silence.

Before 'Weed had time to make another joke about him and Tangerine, Rust had already grabbed up his best stuff, except for the meat hooks, and was flying off in the direction of the palace.

As he flew over the heads of the painfully dim-witted guards, Rust prepared himself both mentally and physically.

He wasn't about to rip off the Queen of the Sky Kingdom, mostly because she could have him killed if she ever found out about his sneaky dealing.

He'd be honest and up-front with her.

Even if it did go against everything he'd ever been taught.

Besides, he thought to himself, how bad could Scarlet really be?